


flickers among the flat pink roses

by ophvelias



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birth, F/M, Family Feels, Ficlet, The Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophvelias/pseuds/ophvelias
Summary: And science doesn’t account for miracles but maybe it should, because that is exactly what she is, the only credible explanation for her very existence.





	flickers among the flat pink roses

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory baby fic for Father's Day. Set in the Framework, more specifically Inhuman Baby Verse although it reads as a generic, any-verse setting really. The “you did it” line from 4x21 inspired me. Also, special thanks to Jess for encouraging me.
> 
> Title from Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Morning Song’ because it’s one of my favourites and it’s about a baby, okay.

A burning ache pours out violently from the base of Ophelia’s spine, flames licking down the insides of her thighs and up to her pelvis. Her insides ignite and she yelps through gritted teeth, a desperate kind of sound, gripping Leopold’s hand tighter, knuckles turning white. There’s a terrible tension in every crevice of her body and for a moment it’s like her bones are on the verge of snapping.

She can feel her muscles drawing together and she’s suddenly pulled forward, taut as a bowstring as her body shakes. There’s pressure and more pressure and then sudden relief and she’s still burning but she can breathe again.

“You did it.” The words spill from Leopold’s mouth with something like wonder. He leans in to brush a strand of damp hair from Ophelia’s face and tucks it behind her ear. Lets his fingers linger there for a moment, cupping her cheek.

“You did it.” He says and there’s a note of incredulity in his voice as he presses a kiss against her temple.

“I did it.” Ophelia echoes breathlessly, hand circling his wrist as if to keep him there.

A cry rings out, breaking through the silence, and it’s clear, _so_ clear and loud and _magnificent._ Leopold’s eyes instinctively follow the sound and he’s met with the sight of a pink bundle in the nurse’s arms.

“Would you like to hold her?” She asks, and suddenly there’s something else, something like fear, sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach because how? He doesn’t know _how._

Leopold looks to Ophelia for guidance and she nods at him, giving him a small smile in lieu of encouragement. Her lips are pale and her cheeks are flushed, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, damp hair sticking to the nape of her neck, clear evidence of her strain. It was a long delivery, difficult and not without complications and though she’s sure that nothing has ever hurt that much, muscles still burning, bones still aching, she’s never felt more _whole._

“It’s okay.” She tells him because that’s what he needs to hear, because she can read tension in the pull of his shoulders, nerves in the line of his mouth, fear in his eyes.

He gently uncurls his fingers and lets go of her hand, standing as the nurse walks towards him, breath hitching as she settles the bundle into the crook of his arms.

Leopold holds her close; a little girl, his― _their_ daughter, with Ophelia’s dark hair and his eyes and skin the color of creamy ivory. A little girl who, he realizes, in little more than an instant, just became his entire world.

And when he looks at her, he thinks of space. Of the cosmos, vast and beautiful―of supernovae and entire universes―of the beginning of time and life itself. And science doesn’t account for miracles but maybe it should, because that is exactly what she is, the only credible explanation for her very existence.

She doesn’t cry, breathing in quick, startled moth-breaths, eyes wide and blinking as she gazes up at him. She is tiny, _so_ tiny in his arms, so fragile and precious and he’s _caught,_ filled with a sudden, all-consuming desire to protect her.

And loving her―loving her is effortless. It feels natural and―necessary. She is _necessary._ He’s known this as long as he’s known of her existence but he didn’t understand it, not really, not in the way Ophelia did as she carried her beneath her heart.

A beat, and the realization sinks in―she’s here. She’s _real._ Not just a flutter of movement beneath his palm, not just something small and miraculous growing beneath the expanse of Ophelia’s skin but a warm, steady weight in his arms. 

 _I’ve waited for you,_  he thinks.

“She’s beautiful.” Leopold says, mouth curving around something soft and quiet but it’s _not enough._ She’s so much more than that. She’s _everything._


End file.
